This story certainly evolved differently than I thought it would when I clicked on the headline.

Cheerleaders Had Sex in Bar, Witnesses Say November 07, 2005 TAMPA, Fla. - Two Carolina Panthers cheerleaders were charged after their arrest at a bar where witnesses told police the women had sex in a restroom.

Renee Thomas, 20, of Pittsboro, N.C., and Angela Keathley, 26, of Belmont, N.C., were taken to Hillsborough County Jail early Sunday.

Witnesses said the women were having sex in a stall with each other, angering patrons waiting in line to get into the restroom at the club in the Channelside district.

Thomas was charged with battery Sunday after allegedly striking a bar patron when she was leaving the restroom, then landed in even more trouble after police said she gave officers a driver's license belonging to another Panthers cheerleader who was not in Tampa.

Thomas, who made the trip to Florida for Sunday's game between the Panthers and Tampa Bay Buccaneers, was released from jail on $500 bail before police learned she was not the person she claimed to be.

Providing police with a false name is a misdemeanor. However, Thomas was charged Monday with giving a false name and causing harm to another - a third-degree felony punishable by probation or a jail term of 1 to 5 years, said police spokeswoman Laura McElroy.

Meanwhile, detectives are trying to determine how Thomas gained possession of the driver's license of the third cheerleader.

Keathley, charged with disorderly conduct and resisting arrest, was released on $750 bail about an hour before the Panthers played the Bucs at Raymond James Stadium. The cheerleaders were not in town to perform at the game.

The line is long, and pained and slow To the little room where Ladyes go; No reason can the patrons see Who wait so desperately to pee. Alas, what is that awful din? From deep the Ladye's Room within? What agony, and pain and fright Must cause such groanings in the night, Such screams of bodies clearly torn, Or else a child is being born! The lasses in the long line frown And tighten their sphincters further down As through the door, the cries and moans Rattles them down into their bones. At last, at last, the latch is drawn And lightly staggering, pink as dawn, All flushed and bright with passion's dew A cheerleader bright -- and then there's two! Two breathless beauties, tart and glowing With lustful smiles of secret knowing, Who cruelly all these damsels vexed While they were busy, having sex. To top it off, the Sapphic rose Whacks some poor toper on the nose And leaving him stunned, escapes the light, Away in the cool, clear Lesbos night.

It's going to take us a while at this rate. But Amos, I am impressed with the result of your cheerleader musings! Someone ought to send a copy of that to the originating newspaper that carried the story!

From it's inception until now, I would like to congratulate the cast of characters who have toiled along in total silliness to make this indeed the MOABS. Many folks have contributed but there are those few which I and others will always pay tribute to as the main provacateurs of this heap of festering drivel and nonsense which deserve credit for not only their contribution to the power of nothingness (for which I am sure they will receive The Hemingway Award) but also as the living proof and testament to the now apparent fact that one can live, breathe, and yet have no life at all.

I send along as well a 120 pound container of pressurized possum farts which Cleigh has collected to honor the occasion of this thread crossing the line into true immortality. Please release them at the height of the celebration (Keep Away from Open Flame).

Good on ya', good up ya', and good in ya' depending upon any personal philosophies.

Here, without using chemicals, I play the hand that nature deals- my garden's where an earthworm feels secure. Sky high corn, and these tomatoes dwarf their tough-skinned tasteless kin, those pathetic mutants at the grocery store.

If I shared my little secret it might spoil your will to eat, yet also give you food for thought if you're unsure. I use fertilizer so fine from the south end of my equine friends in-stalled outside the city: horse manure.

Gardener's gold, I load and pile it mix it, turn it, wait and while it cooks I test it every smelly couple days: plunge my hand into the steaming reeking middle, what's it needing... air? or water? "One more week," the odor says.

Manue compost on the side as a snug blanket, makes like midas: everything it touches turns to veggie gold. Green bean vines devour their trellis, rabid zucchini overwhelm us - that stuff seems to make them giddy and quite bold.

So try this healthy spinach sample courtesy of horses' ample capacity for pelletizing hay. And if it messes up your thinking to be eating what was stinking manure, think how you might recycle too some day.

Well Mom, I must leave you for today - but I'll try to pop in if I can get on the computer later this evening - I need to do that if possible as I've got a buncha tunes to transcribe and post. but I also have a Christmas stocking to finish for my 2nd Great-niece - whose arrival date is Dec 25.

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these. But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to MOABs peole here.

Mom creeps along through the night, heavy with her burden of posts (so many that she's barely distraught at the scrambled nature of many from early this year--they're all here, that's what matters). I'm going to step out on the porch and gaze at Mars through the binoculars then head for bed. I'll check on you bright and early!

The squop is the most important shot in the winker's repertoire, involving the placement of the played wink on top of another wink - thus stopping the covered wink from being played, and stopping it from contributing to the score of its owning player. A squop is typically played with the squidger tilted towards the direction of travel of the played wink. Where possible, most people find it easier to squop towards themselves, moving the squidger off the end of the wink most distant from themselves. Many players use a squopping motion, playing away from themselves, to bring winks into the game from the baseline. Squopping sends a wink in quite a low trajectory.

Cheese Rolling!

Around May day , the people of Coopers Hill, Gloucestershire and many, many outsiders gather to compete in the annual Cheese Chase. A number of men gather at the top the hill, and a 7lb wheel of double gloucster cheese is bowled down the hill. The men give chase, and the first one to catch the cheese, or cross the finishing line keeps it. The young farmers association, and rugby teams are firm favourites for this.

There is a seperate competition for women, as they're not stupid enough to join in the mens one...

This is a game with a bit of an Aussie flavour - well, we are a weird mob!

WOMBAT TABLE TENNIS

Wombat table tennis is very similar to traditional table tennis with one major exception. A small wombat is used instead of a ball.

THE TABLE The table is rectangular, 9 foot in length by 5 ft in width. It is made of any material that will give a uniform bounce of not less than 8 3/4 inches and not more than 9 3/4 inches when a regulation wombat is dropped from a height of one foot above the surface. The playing surface shall be preferably dark green, and matt, with a white line 3/4 inch wide along each edge.

The playing surface is divided into two courts of equal size by a vertical net running parallel to the end lines. The net is 6 feet long and its top along the whole length is 6 inches above the playing surface. Another net being 6 inches high covers the perimeter of the table. This net is to keep the wombat from running off the table during a game.

THE RACKET The racket may be of any size, shape or weight.

THE WOMBAT A wombat is a marsupial found in Australia. Young common wombats are used only. Use of the endangered Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat of Queensland for table tennis is strictly forbidden.

SERVING THE WOMBAT At the start of the serve, the player shall insert his hand into the wombat's pouch above the level of the playing surface, and behind the server's end line.

The wombat and the racquet shall be above the level of the playing surface and behind the end line of the server's court or an imaginary extension thereof from the last moment at which the wombat is stationary on the palm of the free hand until the wombat is struck in service.

The server shall then project the wombat near vertically upwards pulling his hand out of the pouch without imparting spin, so that it rises at least 6 inches after leaving the palm of the hand.

As the wombat is then descending from the height of its trajectory, the server shall strike it so that it touches first his own court and passes directly over the net or around or under the projection of the net and its supports outside the table, touches the receiver's court.

If, in attempting to serve, a player fails to strike the wombat while it is in play, he shall lose a point.

POINTS Points are awarded the same as in regular table tennis with the following exceptions: A player shall lose a point if : He obstructs the wombat. If the wombat urinates on his court. He strikes the wombat twice successively. The wombat runs off the player's court. The wombat bites the player. The server has unnatural acts with the wombat.

We used to enjoy a few rounds of rutabaga bowling in the afternoon when Her Majesty was visiting Warwick, but lately the crowds haven't allowed the room for a proper game of bowls.

Before they put the stairs in between the Upper and Lower Shire Cabbage Bowls was popular.

Stilly - rumour hath it that when you talk about gazing at Mars through the binoculars you are using an acronym** - is it true?

but back to the games - Rutabaga bowling of course uses butternut squash for pins, and by preference White rutabagas, though usually only the (inferior) yellow variety is available. Players claim the white roll more evenly and that the yellow fleshed varieties are more uneven. S'truth!

I am weary to me bones, I am; I spent the whole evening rerouting a phone cable that had once been hidden beneath a carpet, and now had to run overhead behind a beam and down the opposite wall, because of the new flooring. But by Yiminy, when the geen-with-white stripes wire was finally married to the blue wire, the damn phone worked just as it shoulda. A small but distinct triumph.

In other news, the MOAB trundles, lurches, staggers, and drags her way to Mudcat history, a Granfaloon to Top All Granfaloons.

Awright, I'm back. And I don't wanna hear one stinkin' word from any of you punks, ya hear? I go off and keep the promises I made months ago, and when I come back I find that I'm pretty much forgotten.

Well, it ain't gonna be that way no more. I'm gonna stomp around the house, I'm gonna sock any chowederbrain who don't like it, ya hear me? You punks wanna stay healthy you don't even THINK about lookin' at me funny, ya unnerstan?

And perhaps then I'll obtain the respect I most certainly deserve. For who, other than myself, has been so compromising, so civil, so peaceloving, so considerate, so caring, so conscientious? Mother, of course, suggested the name change and the reasons for it. She told me, "Son, unless you carry a thirty-two gun your pocket for fun and a razor in your shoe, Amos won't respect you one bit. Bunny will continue to laugh at you behind your back, and that hot Texas tomato will chortle in her chili when your name is mentioned. Which, I hasten to add, it never is. So you have to be metamorphized into the baddest man in the whole damn town. Now you toddle off to bed, and don't forget to say your nighty-nighty prayers."

"But Mom!" I said, "carrying a razor in my shoe seems not just uncomfortable, but unsafe. I could cut off one or more of my little piggies!"

And she replied, "Well, you just take care when you do it. And if some of your little piggies are sliced off we'll have them sewn back on. Now put on your Care Bears pajamas, brush your teethies, say your prayers, and climb into the world of sweet dreams."

And so I have done just as Mother suggested. I have thirty-two guns in my pocket for fun, and it's quite a burden. My pants fall down, for one thing. And the cord from the razor keeps getting all tangled up in bushes and things and sometimes I even step on it and trip myself.

But as soon as I change my name to Leroy Brown I'll be the Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town. First though I suppose I have to determine whether or not there is an "E" on the end of Brown. And whether or not "Leroy" is "Lee Roy" "LeRoy" "Le Roy" or some other variant.

Your assistance would be appreciated.

Thank you for helping me to become the Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town.

Is it legal to marry blue and white wires to green wires in California? Wasn't there a resolution passed on that or some such thing? Or was that a resolution to define marriage as the joining of wires of different gauges? I get confused.

I have always respected you, Goode Rapaire; I just chide you once in a while when you Cop Attitude. I don't think I could respect someone who Aspired to Badenesse, though. I t seems very counter-productive. Is it possible you were being given a Bumme Steere?

I haven't tripped on a shaver wire (cord?) for a long time, but I do sometimes step on the string that dangles from the back of my ironing board cover. When the board is folded the string trails on the floor.

You'd be really bad, Leroy, if you carried an ironing board in your shoe instead of a razor. Same general shape, just much larger. I suppose you could wear one in each shoe to balance yourself out.

Ooops. Pardon me while I go get a cloth to dry the spit off of my screen. This is just too funny to visualize. You could play a sasquatch on the side, with shoes this size. . .

Since such a momentus number is coming up, and since I typically post poetry around these times when there is more of a captivated audience, I will post one of my favorites. It's good, and it's important.

Mending Wall Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it And spills the upper boulder in the sun, And make gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there, I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There were it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having though of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."